A/N: Revised - 26/03/2020.

AWF

The Bloody Baron must've gone to get help at some point, since Hem nearly crashes straight into a professor, with the bloodied ghost and several other professors behind them. There's an abrupt cacophony of loud, concerned voices ̶ (please, stop) ̶ that then bombards her already frayed senses and almost makes her want to go back to the troll.

It, at least, only grunted and roared in pain as it destroyed everything around it. Which is somehow preferable in comparison to shrill tones stabbing her eardrums and adults crowding around her to survey for any sort of damage upon her form. (Why are their robes so obnoxiously coloured?)

"Step back!" commands a feminine, vaguely recognisable voice. A dark-skinned woman quickly comes into sight, shielding her from the others. "Give the girl some space, will you? I'll stay with her; the rest of you should go deal with the troll."

And after some quick verbal exchanges, they do just that, whizzing by her with their wands drawn and their robes aflutter.

But the turban man ̶ (Quill? Quirrell. Why is he looking at her so intently?) ̶ lingers, wide eyes set upon her as though he's both horrified and utterly fascinated. (But why? What about her warrants such an attitude?) But then Professor Snape smacks him in the back of the head and practically drags the twitchy man towards the dungeons. Her Head of House briefly makes eye contact with her as he passes, but then she blinks and he's gone.

Then, like a puppet cut from its strings, Hem drops to the floor, her legs giving out. She'd lay on the floor right then and there, but the professor that's stayed with her ̶ (Aurora? Theia likes her) ̶ helps her up and proceeds to lead her somewhere. Probably the Hospital Wing.

. . .

. . .

"She's all right," states the nurse while Hem sips on something called a Calming Draught. She doesn't like it very much. It makes her limbs all sluggish, like it's mixing with the sludge that's already present. "Aside from fraught nerves, she's barely got a scratch! And thank goodness for that; the poor girl could've been killed! How could this have happened, Albus?"

Putting the bottle on the side table, her head droops unexpectedly and she nearly hits the wooden surface with her face. But she manages to avoid such a fate by abruptly pulling herself back until she's lying flat on the bed, legs dangling over the edge.

With heavy-lidded eyes blankly staring up at the ceiling, Hem thinks it wise to not consume any more Calming Draughts from now on.

"Oh, you poor dear! You're exhausted." The nurse approaches, beginning to tuck her into bed properly even though Hem wouldn't have cared, either way. In all honesty, she should probably return to the dorm because following a routine is automatic and breaking from it can bewilder her mind.

Something soon twinkles in her peripheral, so she turns to find the headmaster by the end of the bed. He's giving her a peculiar, somewhat penetrating stare and she's unsure of why she feels like he's wary of her. Does he think she'll have an episode and melt someone with accidental magic?

"You must be someone interesting if the normally genial man ̶ so says my brother, at least ̶ peers at you with such calculation."

Then again, it's not that much different compared to when she comes to his office to retrieve her prescription medicine. Even though he has friendly, one-sided conversations with her and allows her to eat as many sherbet lemons as she likes, his eyes are usually trained on her in a fashion that one would likely find uncomfortable. (Sometimes, they're trained on her hand as she absentmindedly twirls her wand between her fingers.)

"I can't imagine what it'd be like if Dumbledore was my headmaster," sneered Tom, unconsciously pulling her closer to him. "He'd likely have me expelled, just because of how blatant his dislike of me is. The sentiment is reciprocated, in truth. He knows nothing of my life nor of what goes on in dingy muggle orphanages, but he figured it was a good idea to set my wardrobe on fire ̶ which can be a traumatic experience for normal children ̶ and tell me to apologise to whomever I stole from. He didn't even bother to know the full story! Just assumed that I was clearly the only guilty party." His face contorted into a dark, fierce glower, hand clenching her hair so tightly that his knuckles were probably white. "Does he treat every child that does something he considers wrong like this? With suspicion and vague distaste?"

Hem closes her eyes, unable to keep them open any longer.

"I'll endeavour to rectify the situation immediately, Poppy," assures the headmaster, his elderly voice calm. (Something about it is grating.) A soft shuffle of fabric. "In the meantime, we'll have the dungeons repaired while the students finish their supper before returning to their dormitories. Miss Granger's sister and friends can visit her in the morning, I assume?"

The nurse ̶ (Poppy? Poppy Pomfrey, that's it) ̶ elicits a sigh and an acquiescing, "Yes," as something gently clatters against a tray. "I'll keep her for the night; I'm afraid she'll collapse on her way back. I hope you've gotten rid of the horrid beast by now. You wouldn't want to startle any other Slytherin student that might be wandering the halls."

"Oh, yes. It was, perhaps fortunately, dead by the time the professors appeared to confront it. You see, pencils had been curiously lodged in its eyes, and in its attempt to remove them, the troll had inadvertently ended up stabbing itself in the brain."

A muted part of her wants to snort at that, but the rest of her is already shutting down for the night.

. . .

. . .

Tom is visibly struggling with his conflicted emotions.

On one hand, she's survived an encounter with a troll ̶ ("There'd better be no lasting damage. You're not hiding any wounds, are you?") ̶ which is now dead ̶ ("Good riddance," he hisses, teeth actually bared with vindictive triumph) ̶ but on the other hand; she's survived an encounter with a troll ̶ ("A troll shouldn't have been able to just wander into Hogwarts like that, Hem! Someone must've let them in." His expression implies that he'd like to have a word with that particular person) ̶ and it was a rather close call.

(She won't tell him just how close. He might actually punch her, not that she'd feel it. But even if she can't feel it, it's not likely to be a pleasant experience.)

"When I said that you had to survive, Hem," he eventually murmurs, his body too still as his elbows are propped on his thighs and his hands are tensely clasped together. He's been like that for quite a while, now, face expressionless while he stares into the distance. It happens, sometimes, when he's in need of thoroughly sorting his thoughts. He'll pace at first, usually, subconsciously trying to walk off the excess energy, then he'll sit down with a statuesque stillness and think. "I was thinking more along the lines of you establishing your place within the hierarchy of cut-throat, pure-blood children. Encountering trolls and starving yourself wasn't meant to be part of the equation."

Hem rubs her eyes and rests her chin on her knees. Yes, she assumes they wouldn't be.

He turns to her, then, his lacklustre expression impressively emphasising clear disapproval when he simply raises a single brow. She blinks at him. Just once, but the mask cracks, anyway, revealing a scowl. "Why do you insist on doing this to me?" he demands with a curled lip, suddenly on his feet and leaning over her, arms braced against the backrest and practically trapping her with his intense, thunderous glower.

"Doing what?" she absently prompts, despite already having an inkling as to what he means. Hem's hands reach up, her fingers automatically brushing against his jawline. It's an established thing; one she can't remember doing for the first time. But it provides a vague sense of comfort and calm within her. It does the same to him.

His lips thin, most likely because he still wants to be annoyed with her.

(When he's older, his features will be so much sharper; so much more polished. He already receives a great deal of attention as it is, which he uses to his advantage, of course, but he's always rather disgruntled with the hassle of Valentine's Day. It's always mildly entertaining to listen to him complain about having to reject every one of them while sparing their feelings. He's not very fond of touch and affection from people he has no care for; which is essentially everyone.)

Tom's face hardens after faltering momentarily, but his head is still slightly tilted towards her touch. "You're well aware of what I mean," he responds. He doesn't want to say.

(She knows it's irritating to care about her. Always worrying; always fearful of the possibility that he'll have no one if she's gone.

He cares for no one except himself and her and it bothers him to no end.)

She does, both to his pleasure and not. He's never been partial to helplessness, but she makes him feel just that when she tells him of the dangers she's been put through; either caused by herself or some outside force. It doesn't help that he's usually further incensed by her lack of care for it all. He'd like it if her self-preservation was more of a conscious effort than an automatic one.

But Hem's not afraid of death. Apathy took that away and made it seem tempting instead of terrifying.

"It would've been nice if you were in Gryffindor," groaned Ron, dirt smudged on his cheek from somewhere. "Hermione would probably fret about you less, then."

"Excuse you, Ron! I'm allowed to be concerned for my sister, thank you very much."

The problem is that she's not brave. One has to first feel fear before they can be brave, after all. And it's established that Hem can't usually feel in general, so she was never going to be Sorted into Gryffindor.

(Like the atypical feeling that says it was always meant to be Hogwarts; she has a feeling that it was also meant to be Slytherin.)

Moving her hands to the side of his neck, Hem pulls him closer until their foreheads touch. He lets her, his eyes glued to hers and burning. Searching. But she breaks it off by closing her eyes and listening to him breathe. His breath caresses her skin. There's no temperature.

"Still here," she whispers, his breath hitching in response. It'd be almost unnoticeable if they weren't so close. "Still alive."

And then she's standing, face forced against his collarbone as he holds her to him in an unyielding, proprietorial grip. (It'd be painful, no doubt. He holds her like she'll burst into stardust if he lets go.) His chin is digging into her skull, but then he shifts and it's apparently replaced with his nose and lips.

Slowly, her arms move to wrap around his midsection. Something in her shakes ̶ (it's bubbling and unfamiliar) ̶ but she can't identify what it is. He's never hugged her before. It's strange. She wonders if he's curious as to how it would feel in the real world.

"Keep it that way," he whispers back into her hair, the hand pressed against the back of her skull trying to pull her further into him. "You're not allowed to die, Hem. I forbid it. "

(That's a shame. One might say that she has an unfortunate habit of defying expectations.)

Hem doesn't reply. She probably wouldn't be able to, anyway.

. . .

. . .

"Oh, my god, Hem!" exclaims Hermione, who seems to be doing her best to not burst into tears and sprint straight at her like a bullet. That would yield unfortunate results, definitely. "I'm so glad you're all right! I was worried sick when the Bloody Baron, of all people, burst into Great Hall snarling about a troll in the dungeons!"

Her sister ̶ (is she?) ̶ is then promptly by her side despite not having ran towards her, reaching over to give Hem a relieved but purposefully gentle hug. Hermione wouldn't want to overwhelm her with an overly fierce hug. Two boys have accompanied her, Hem notes; one with dark hair and one with light, but both possessing bright hues that make her squint. (Ron and Harry.)

When she looks at them, they both bestow upon her genuinely relieved smiles. It almost hurts to look at them.

Hermione soon releases her to sit on the edge of the bed while the boys continue to stand beside her bed on the other side. Harry opens his mouth to say, "I'm really glad you're okay, Hem. We were trying to leave when we realised that you were the one in danger, but the prefects and teachers wouldn't let us." To her confusion, his eyes ̶ (so vivid, stop it) ̶ shine with guilt, as if she expected him and the others to come to her rescue and that he's sorry to have disappointed her.

(A miniscule, bitter part of her hisses at the thought.)

"Suppose it doesn't matter in the end," Ron pipes up, an excited smile on his freckled face. "You seem to have managed just fine. There's talk about how you killed the troll all by yourself, did you know? Their hides are usually resistant to magic, so everyone reckons that you must've used some kind of really powerful spell to kill it!"

Her sister purses her lips in disapproval. "They're being quite annoying about it, honestly. I'm certain they're going to try and bombard you with questions, but I'll jinx the lot of them if I have to." She huffs, hair thrown over her shoulder. "It's a good thing there aren't any classes on Friday, otherwise they'd be annoying you all day in class. For now, however, you're safe; Madam Pomfrey made sure that only friends could come visit you before you leave."

"So," Ron leans forward, anticipatory. "How did you manage to kill it?"

"Ron!"

The ginger-haired boy waves Hermione off. "Oh, come off it, Hermione. You're curious, too, I know you are!" He turns to Harry, then, looking for support. "You want to know, too, don't you, Harry?"

Harry grimaces as his slightly overprotective friend shifts her warning glare from Ron to him. He gives a sheepish, apologetic smile as he rubs the back of his neck in discomfort. "Well… I do," he admits. Ron looks triumphant. "But Hem can't really tell us at the moment, now, can she?" Hermione nods, satisfied, while Ron's face falls with the realisation. Turning to Hem, he gives her an encouraging smile. "You don't have to tell us straight away, but…"

He trails off as she leans to reach into her bag before pulling out a spare pencil. (Is something missing?) Hem lifts it to them, hoping they'll be able to figure it out on their own when she uses her free hand to point a finger at her eyes.

"A pencil?" Hermione questions with a scrunched face. "You killed the troll with a pencil?"

The green of Harry's eyes brightens with comprehension as he looks between the object in her hand and her eyes. "Multiple pencils!" he asserts, looking to his Gryffindor friends. "She must've aimed for the eyes or something, right? And didn't you say that trolls are really stupid, Ron?"

"Oh, my god!" Hermione gasps, catching on. "It would've tried to get them out but its hands were too big!"

"Wait," says Ron, lifting his hand as his face scrunches up with thought. "So, you're saying that Hem flung muggle pencils in the troll's eyes, it tried to pull them out, but since it's so stupid, it only jammed them in until they stabbed the brain?" He looks at her specifically, then, hoping for some confirmation.

Hem nods, covering her mouth as she yawns and puts the pencil back in her bag. (Ah, that's it. Her sketchbook's missing.)

The three of them startle her when they burst into laughter, even though Hermione is trying to smother it with her hands. Hem blinks at them with indistinct bewilderment, but then she realises that it'd probably be a rather absurd thing to learn. Instead of her managing to kill it with some unknown, powerful and probably Dark spell; the creature killed itself via slapping small, mundane pieces of wood further into its head. (Did she somehow lengthen them as well?)

Tom found it amusing, too, actually, after calming down somewhat. "Unorthodox, yet also effective. I'd be proud of you, but I'm still preoccupied with aggressive indignation." He was still proud of her, regardless. Just one more emotion ̶ (it must be so annoying, having more than one emotion that he can fully feel) ̶ to add to the storm of his mind. She even saw his lips twitch upwards against his will.

"Brilliant! You're brilliant, Hem! Fred and George are going to bust a gut; they wanted to visit you, too, actually." Ron takes a breath or two before adding, "But they had Care of Magical Creatures. Told us to give you their regards, though. I think they're going to plan a prank in your honour."

"I think Sally-Anne's going to capitalise on the whole incident on Hem's behalf," Harry theorises with a mirthful smile while he cleans his glasses. "Maybe the guys in Slytherin will leave them alone for a bit. Except for Malfoy, most likely. He has issues."

That's true, Hem thinks, after remembering who Malfoy is supposed to be. Sally-Anne will have fun with that, no doubt.

Hermione slips her hand into Hem's and squeezes.

AWF

A/N: Reviews are love. Reviews are life. It's never ogre. Thank you for reading.